False Faces
by AQotL
Summary: "Trust me." It's a simple request. Except how can Peter trust the man who's deceived him from the very beginning?
1. Pieces

**A/N: **Well, here we go. I've been working on this story for months – even before I finished my last published fic, "Craquelure" – and I've just now pushed myself hard enough to put the first chapter up. The hesitance is mainly due to my track record when it comes to completing multi-chapter stories, so I wanted to try to finish as many chapters as I could before posting. I have six completed and two more started, so the outlook for story completion is pretty good.

Anyways, this is a semi- follow-up to my previous _Chuck_/_White Collar_ fics ("Casey vs. the Anti-Suit" and "Craquelure"). I consider it a semi- follow-up because the events of those two oneshots are not so important to this story that they must be read first, but there will be some small references later on. For those of you who have not read "Anti-Suit" or "Craquelure," I will include a note in the author's notes of chapters that refer back to either of the two stories. Right now, all you need to know from both of those stories is that I have a theory on Neal's real identity (and I'm sure quite a few of you have the same idea) that is the basis of this fic.

Thanks again to the wonderful **marihun** for all the encouragement and convincing me to post. Without the encouragement, who knows when this story would have made it onto the site?

**Timeline: **Post- "Under the Radar" (the season 2 finale) for _White Collar_, but goes AU after Peter shoots Adler (meaning neither Peter or Neal knows the treasure is still out there); post- "Chuck vs. the Cliffhanger" (the season 4 finale) for _Chuck_, but goes AU before Morgan picks up the sunglasses (I'll explain more about the AU part in later chapters)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Chuck _or _White Collar_. Otherwise, my theory would be correct. I also do not own the song featured in the beginning, just a copy of the CD it's on. I just felt this clip of the song went well with the chapter (and because I was listening to the CD while I was writing).

**Pieces**

_Stay, tell me the story again_

_How it all fell apart in the end_

_Just when you thought you were too far gone_

_You're too far gone_

_ - David Cook, "Hard to Believe"_

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't close this door right now and leave you standing outside."

Peter raised an eyebrow at his consultant's sudden hostility and casually shifted his right arm in an attempt to hide what was in his hand. "Because I'm your superior and I have a gun?" he offered in response.

Neal flinched instinctively at the word 'gun' and a hand flew towards his chest as if he was in pain, but he quickly regained his composure. Narrowing his eyes and painting a frustrated scowl on his face, he grumbled, "I know what you're doing – don't try it."

"Oh, really? Well, then… what am I doing?"

"This is the second time I've found you outside my door with a six-pack of beer and a screw-top bottle of wine. From my experience, this means you want to talk about something I really don't want you to bring up."

"Huh. You _do_ know what I'm doing," Peter mused, pushing past Neal and setting the drinks on the kitchen table. He pulled a bottle of beer out of the package and calmly drummed his fingers on the cool glass exterior. "I guess this means you know what I'm here to talk about."

Neal let the front door swing shut before leaning back against it, crossing his arms across his chest sulkily. "In fact, yes, I do. And no, we are not talking about it."

That earned another raised eyebrow from the FBI agent. "We'll have to talk about it sooner or later."

"No, we don't. I managed not talking about it with you for eight years."

"You were my consultant for just two of those years – the prison time and the time you spent traveling the world while I was chasing you doesn't count. The situation has changed, too. The reason we've never had this discussion before was because I still thought you were just a devious, charming, annoying-as-hell conman. Now, now I know differently."

"Gee, thanks for sharing your personal opinion of me," Neal deadpanned, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the wood floor as he continued to glare at Peter. He stopped mid-motion and straightened before he added, "If things had gone according to plan, you wouldn't have ever found out."

"Even if they had, I still think we'd be having this same conversation at some time or another." Peter took a seat in one of the kitchen chairs before motioning for Neal to do the same. When the younger man didn't budge from his position near the door, Peter shrugged and turned back to his beer bottle.

Silence fell over the two partners as the disagreement faded out and the topic was dropped. Both men gazed intently at their surroundings – Peter at the glass bottle nestled gently in his hands, Neal at the ceiling – waiting to see who would crack first.

Peter had just finished counting to forty-seven seconds before Neal finally sighed, "Why do you want to talk about this?"

Allowing a small smirk of victory to twitch at the corners of his mouth, Peter leaned back in his chair and stretched out his arms. "I just want to know the full story."

Neal shifted his weight onto his left foot. "I've already told you everything I can about how all of this started," he said, calmly running a hand through his hair. "You were there when everything fell apart. You already have the full story."

"Not quite." Peter shook his head and tapped his fingers against the beer bottle before clarifying, "Both you and I only have two-thirds of the story."

"Two-thirds?"

The FBI agent nodded. "We both had our own separate experiences before everything converged. Each of those experiences constitutes a third of the entire story – one for me, and one for you. We both have the third piece." He glanced up at Neal. "You know which one that is."

"All too well." The consultant paused to gather his thoughts. "So your missing third is my side of the story before everything went wrong, and my missing piece is your side?"

"Exactly."

Another sigh escaped Neal's throat. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope," Peter replied, popping the 'p' as he pried the lid off his beer bottle. "I just want to know my consultant better and try to fix that little 'issue' with our mutual trust. You pretty much took a machine gun to it by failing to mention who you really are before that secret blew up in our faces."

Neal grimaced. "I made a mistake, okay? Can we move on?"

"We _are _talking about this."

"I really wish you'd change your mind…"

"Neal." Peter shot a pointed stare at the conman.

There was another sigh from Neal before he responded flatly, "Peter."

The next statement came out as both a determined declaration and a reluctant groan as Peter and Neal announced in unison, "We need to talk about Bryce Larkin."

. . .

**A/N 2: **(Of course, I had to add that homage to the end of "Free Fall" with those last lines)

And there's the prologue. Interestingly enough, this was actually the sixth chapter I wrote – the next chapter was originally the first chapter, but I wanted a bit of an opener rather than jump right into the story.

This chapter occurs at an undetermined time in the future, after the end of the story. With that said, the rest of the story is mainly a flashback which plays out as Peter and Neal discuss the events – much like "Forging Bonds."

We'll officially begin the story in the next chapter. I'll probably put it up in about a week, or possibly less.

Until then,

AQotL


	2. Dr Haversham

**A/N: **So, here's Chapter 2, the original first chapter. This is where the story actually starts.

Just a quick note: as the story begins, there won't be too much interaction between Peter and Neal. Both characters have separate mini-storylines that will eventually converge, so the chapters will alternate accordingly. With this chapter we begin Neal's storyline, and Peter's will begin in Chapter 3.

Having cleared that up, I hope you enjoy this installment!

**Spoilers: **Direct references to the episodes "Unfinished Business" (_White Collar _2x05) (I took so many notes and watched the same scenes over and over just to write this chapter) and "Chuck vs. the Ring" (_Chuck _2x22); a few small references to "Casey vs. the Anti-Suit," but nothing major

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. It's as simple as that. (Once again, the lyrics at the beginning don't belong to me either – I just like finding clips of songs that can somehow relate to what I'm writing)

**Dr. Haversham**

_No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone_

_ - Florence + the Machine, "Blinding"_

It started out just as he had remembered it.

_The cab slowed to a stop in front of the illuminated building, just as planned. Tossing a tip towards the driver, he slipped out of the backseat through the right side door and softly slammed it shut behind him. The vehicle pulled away once he stepped into the street, already heading towards its next destination._

_ In the moments he stood there in the middle of the street, it felt just like old times. The black leather jacket tried to resist the inevitable creasing as he lifted his wrist and spoke into his watch, reporting his current status to those listening on the other end. The response was technical mutterings not directed at him, contrary to the usual instructions his FBI coworkers delivered. The lack of last-minute warnings made him feel freer than he had been in a long time; he almost felt like himself again._

_ A sleek black limo rolled forward, stopping right in front of him. The driver exited and walked around to the right side to open the door. He accepted the newcomer's gesture, discreetly noting the silvery bulge of a gun in the driver's jacket._

_ He surveyed his surroundings when he slid into the leathery back seat, blue eyes glancing up in the rearview mirror as the suited man slid into the front seat and returned the gaze with his own cold eyes._

_ "Everything is as you requested," the driver finally said, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "Your gloves, your briefcase." _

_ He coolly diverted his eyes from the other man's and looked beside him. Out of the corner of his vision, he noticed the driver's finger stealthily move towards a red button near the gearshift. Even though there was no indication of it on his side of the transmitter, he knew the signal had been jammed._

_ Calm as ever, he casually pulled the contents on the seat next to him onto his lap. Fingering the black gloves for a moment, he tossed them aside and grasped the case underneath them. He popped the latches and stared at the components of an all-too-familiar object._

_ "Is everything in order?" his driver cut in once more. "That is the correct gun."_

_ "Yeah," he replied with slight hesitation as the blue orbs traveled up to the rearview mirror. He muttered something about a "long flight" a moment later, eyes turning back to the case as the warning fell on deaf ears. The man in the front seat spoke up with an emotionless, "What was that, sir?" only to hear the same message not meant for him._

_ As they traveled on, his attention turned back to the gun neatly fitted in the case. Effortlessly, he identified the weapon model, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue. _

_ "As you requested," his driver added monotonously._

_ "Couldn't carry this with me on my long flight, could I?" he commented once more, just in case the agents in the municipal van a ways away managed to regain the signal._

_ The other man learned from experience and chose to ignore the last statement. "Everything else is in place," was the comment instead._

_ In the back seat, he let out a small sigh, more out of contentment than frustration. "It's fantastic," he whispered to himself, still awed by the masterpiece before him._

_ The limo sped past illuminated buildings while silence filled the car's interior with its empty monologue._

_ "Is everything all right, Mr. Black?" the suited man behind the wheel asked him, shattering the icy quiet. _

_ Once again, his blue eyes drifted up to the rearview mirror. Knowing he had captured the driver's attention, he slid the case off his lap and assembled the gun. His hands – experts at this task – moved fluidly as they twisted on the silencer and slammed a bullet clip inside. He angled the weapon downwards in practice, reacquainting himself with an old friend. After another quick look in the mirror, he pulled out of his stance, already feeling the adrenaline coursing throughout him. _

Buildings continued whiz by, and his mind skipped ahead.

_ The front door opened the slightest bit, allowing him to quietly sneak in and gently close it behind him. He drew his gun and fluidly slipped through the hallway, shadows shrouding his dark attire even more. The situation made him flash back once more to the dangerous lifestyle he once had, but the memory filled him with melancholy._

_ Soon enough, he reached the bedroom door, behind which his target lay in bed. He peered in as the door swung open as if to invite him in. With a deep breath, he obliged._

_ "Freeze!" the now-standing figure shouted, aiming a weapon straight at him. The target's order was spoken just as he cried, "Wait, don't shoot!"_

That was when things veered off course.

_ A gunshot rang out, and the bullet soon connected with his abdomen. He toppled over in slow motion, eyes turned skyward as the gray ceiling moved further away. He gasped in pain as the burning sensation spread throughout his body. _

_ At last, his attacker came into view. She leaned over him almost in disinterest, her blonde waves framing her hard, expressionless face. He rasped out in shock at her appearance, knowing that she was not the target. As her gun loomed over his head, he said her name. It was the same as in the original memory, but a completely different woman._

_ "Sarah…"_

At that moment, the gray brightened to a blinding white, and Neal Caffrey became Bryce Larkin once more.

_He was back in that hellish room again, slowly bleeding out onto the pristine tiles. Acid ate at him from the inside out, and he wheezed out an excruciatingly painful breath. His head lolled back against the wall as his arms drooped to his sides. There was no way he could continue fighting._

_ His eyes moved blindly as the memory progressed, and soon his best (and only) friend came into view. Chuck pleaded with him, trying to convince him that the inevitable wasn't going to happen, and he would go on missions with Sarah once again. The ache of his gunshot wound joined forces with his breaking heart to force the truth out of him in a hoarse whisper: "She wasn't going to come."_

_ He knew he and Chuck exchanged a few more words, but he could no longer hear himself or his friend. Death's inescapable lethargy finally clutched him in its claws and dragged him away. _

_ Darkness was the last thing his blue eyes saw._

Neal Caffrey awoke with a start, panting uncontrollably. Sweat drenched his entire body and moistened the fitted sheet covering the mattress beneath him. He moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. However, images of that horrid white room still danced behind his closed eyelids, and he snapped his eyes open once more.

Still horrified by what he had just relived, Neal slowly lifted his head from the mattress and squinted at the sunlight filtering in through the window. Releasing the pillow from his left hand's vise-like grip, he rolled onto his back and examined the scars adorning his body. The ones higher up on his chest had faded slightly in the years after he received them, but the newer one in his abdomen was still conspicuous. He traced his right index finger over this one, worried that he would touch a fresh wound.

"Hey," a voice called from the entryway, and Neal tensed. His hand twitched towards the nightstand to search for a makeshift weapon, but he pulled back when his tired mind finally recognized the voice. He let out of a sigh of frustration and sat up as a bald, bespectacled man entered the room with a glass of wine.

"I see it's not too early to indulge yourself," Neal deadpanned as Mozzie took a seat across the room.

"Chateau LeFranc has been known to work wonders on those who taste it. Nothing like a good peppery Pinot to awaken the senses," the short conman retorted before taking another sip. "You were shouting in your sleep, by the way. Did you have that dream again?"

Neal ran a hand over his face, trying to clear his mind as he shook his head. "It's not completely a dream, Moz. They're memories. These things _really happened._"

Mozzie leaned back pensively, the Chateau LeFranc sloshing red liquid against the sides of the glass. "This is the one about you terrorizing Sara, only this time it's _Sarah _pointing the gun at you. Am I right?"

"She shot me, Moz," Neal admitted quietly, finally standing up and heading into the kitchen. "This time Sarah shot me, and somehow I found myself back in _that_ room, about to die for the second time." He flopped down in a chair and dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his wavy dark hair. "Then there's Chuck, ever the optimist, trying to get me to hang on, just hang on. Except I can't. I gave up the fight, and yet, somehow, here I am. I'm still alive."

"Is that a bad thing? Do you regret not dying there, in front of your friend, like you should have?"

"Some days," Neal started, drawing in a jagged breath. "Some days, I really do."

. . .

_They stood almost motionless in the darkened room, still trying to comprehend the situation. Hastily, he threw out ideas, but she shook her head. She held the gun – no longer aimed at him, thankfully – which meant she would be calling the shots. _

_ He invited her to share her opinion. "What do you suggest?"_

_ She paused to contemplate this question, knowing how crucial her decision would be. It took a moment, but blue eyes met blue eyes as Sara Ellis quietly announced the words he hoped she wouldn't speak:_

_ "Let him think I'm dead."_

_ Though Neal Caffrey warily accepted her idea, Bryce Larkin silently wished she hadn't willingly chosen the path that had been chosen for him._

"Neal? Neal… _Bryce Larkin!_"

The man in question's eyes snapped open, and he glared at the paranoid conspiracy theorist who was staring him down. Mozzie removed his hand from in front of his friend's face and returned to his Chateau LeFranc.

"This isn't good," he murmured, his voice muffled by the wine glass. "If you keep zoning out like this, the Suit's gonna notice. How are you going to explain that to him?"

Neal leaned back casually, tilting his head to the side as he considered the possibilities. "If I'm lucky, he _won't_ notice, and I'll never need to explain." As soon as he said that, he let out an exasperated sigh. "Who am I kidding – this is Peter Burke we're talking about. He'll notice sooner or later."

"We're going to hope for 'later'. Now, let's try to, ahem, _diagnose_ this issue."

"Moz, you aren't a doctor. You can't officially 'diagnose' me."

"Fine. Think of me as your _unofficial_ psychologist, Dr. Haversham. Now, what's the problem?"

Neal folded his arms and placed them on the kitchen table. "I'd say it's intentional multiple personality disorder. I'm Bryce Larkin, the CIA agent who can't be killed, but at the same time I'm also Neal Caffrey, the conman-turned-FBI-consultant." He paused for a moment to think, but instead let out a groan and thumped the heels of his hands against his temples. "This used to be much easier back when aliases were only used for a short time. Long-term ones are what cause problems and blur the line between the cover and the real identity. In this case, I've lived the lie that is Neal Caffrey for so long that I'm gonna need Lazik surgery to see the damn line."

Mozzie nodded his head as he took yet another sip of wine. "Good, good, we're getting somewhere. Now, let's go a little deeper – why is this giving you trouble now? You never had problems with hiding your Anti-Suit impulses before."

"That's something I'm still trying to figure out," Neal admitted, drumming his fingers on the wood tabletop. "If I knew why this was happening, we wouldn't be having this 'therapy session'."

"This might be a problem," Mozzie murmured, using his thumb and forefinger to stroke the sides of his chin a few times before he remembered that he'd shaved his goatee years before. Dropping his hand after a moment of thought, he continued, "It would help to know the reason why you're suddenly having identity crisis issues, but perhaps we should focus on keeping them under control instead."

"Fine. What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you stop dancing around this dual personality issue and face it head-on." Mozzie swirled the remainder of the red liquid around in his wineglass in thought before asking slowly, "You still have a few things stored at the old apartment, right?"

Neal raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. "Yeah, I do.

"That should work perfectly. It's been a while since you've picked up some reading material."

Neal hesitated, mouthing Mozzie's last words in curiosity. A moment later, his eyes lit up in understanding. He stood up from the table and headed back into the bedroom, emerging seconds later with a black duffel bag and a digital key. The latter was pinched between his fingers and inserted into the tracking device around his ankle, which came off with a click. Neal lifted it carefully and attached it to Mozzie's wineglass.

"I should hope that doesn't leave my two-mile radius," he quipped as he admired his handiwork. He then tossed the duffel bag over his shoulder and headed out the door, shouting, "I'll be back sometime this afternoon."

The philosopher-quoting conman stared at his anklet-adorned glass in surprise before lifting it in a salute. "I'll be here."

As Neal disappeared behind the closing door, Mozzie took a celebratory sip of the Chateau LeFranc, murmuring, "Another patient cured. Nice work, Dr. Haversham."

**A/N 2: **I think this is the chapter that's undergone the most editing so far. I'm happy with how it is now, though.

Next time we get a look at what's going on with Peter. Chapter 3 should be up, once again, in about a week or so.

Until then,

AQotL 


	3. In the Dark

**A/N: **Well, this one's a little bit later than I wanted, but I'm finally putting it out.

This is another chapter that's undergone quite a bit of editing, but I like where it is right now. This time we get to see what Peter's up to and set the plot in motion even more.

Well, I'll just leave it at that, and I hope you enjoy the chapter. Thanks so much for the reviews/alerts/favorites so far! Keep it up!

**Spoilers: **References to "Under the Radar" (_White Collar_ 2x16)

**Disclaimer: **_Je n'ai pas les droits de _White Collar _ou _Chuck. No matter the language, the result is still the same. (This also applies, as usual, to the song clip below)

**In the Dark**

_There is something in the shadows_

_More than sister silhouette_

_Something sinister and strange_

_That I haven't seen yet_

_ - Sara Bareilles, "Not Alone"_

It was only Tuesday, but Peter Burke already foresaw many long nights at the office. A new case had just come in, and something told him it wasn't going to be open and shut. It also didn't help that his consultant was calling in "sick."

_"I'm really sorry, Peter, but I just can't make it in today," _Neal apologized through the phone. _"Just not (cough) feeling well."_

The FBI agent felt his 'Don't make this difficult for me, Neal' expression form on his face, soon realizing that the conman couldn't see him. Still, he decided to play along. "You're sick, huh? Do you need medical attention? I can stop by and take you to a doctor on the way to the crime scene."

_"No, no, that's fine," _Neal responded hurriedly, dropping the fake coughs. _"Just a case of… spastic colon. Nothing major."_

"Spastic colon. That was the best you could come up with?"

There was a sigh of defeat on the other end. _"Well, I figured it was better than telling you outright, 'Hey, Peter, I'm playing hooky today.' Wouldn't you agree?"_

"I would. Still, I appreciated your creativity."

"_Creativity," _Peter heard Neal mutter, voice amused and almost reminiscent. A laugh followed, but the sound was much too weak and cheerless.

Worried for his friend, Peter asked softly, "You okay, Neal?"

The consultant hesitated a moment before carefully replying, _"I just need to take a personal day to sort some things out. The aftermath of the whole situation with Adler is finally starting to catch up to me, I guess. All I need is a few hours to myself—maybe I'll stop by the office later on and get caught up on the case."_

Peter nodded in understanding as his Taurus pulled between two yellow parking lines in front of the crime scene. Shutting off the engine and sliding out from behind the wheel, he tried to convince Neal one last time. "You sure you want to play hooky today? We've got a bank robbery on our hands—there might be a distraught teller who needs a little Caffrey smile to cheer her up."

This time, Neal let out a hearty chuckle. _"Tempting, Peter. Very tempting. Sadly, I think I'll have to take a rain check on speaking with our bank-teller-in-distress. Have fun at your crime scene."_

Peter felt a small smile tug at the edges of his mouth with his friend's comments. "See you later, Neal," he replied, hearing the click on the other end before pressing 'End' on his own phone.

Jones was already waiting at the door when Peter reached the front of the bank. Yellow crime scene tape blocked the entrance, rippling uneasily as the wind blew against it.

"Morning, Peter. Where's Neal?" the younger agent asked as his superior greeted him.

"A case of spastic colon got the better of him this morning," Peter responded, crouching down to slide beneath the tape. Seeing Jones's incredulous look, he froze mid-motion and clarified, "His excuse, not mine," before slipping through the entrance.

Looking from the front door, the only indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened was the large number of FBI agents and police officers milling about. Peter had to step into the center of the room to catch a glimpse of a medical team in the hallway leading to the bank's vault.

"Hey, Boss," Diana greeted Peter as he approached. Her gaze then shifted to the unsettled man to her left, fretting over his iPhone. "This is Michael Carlton, the manager."

Unprepared for this introduction, Carlton fumbled with the phone before slipping it into his jacket pocket. Taking a deep breath, he regained his composure and weakly shook the FBI agent's hand. "Thank you for coming. You have our full cooperation on this matter."

Peter nodded and slowly dropped his hand, which was now moistened by sweat from Carlton's palm. "I'm just doing my job. How much was stolen?"

"About $80 million," the manager admitted, smoothing out his jacket with his shaky hands. "My assistant will be back shortly with an exact total. Either way, I'll be receiving phone calls and emails and… well, it's not going to be a good week." A quiet buzz emanated from Carlton's jacket pocket, and he pulled his phone out again, wincing at what was displayed on the fingerprint-smudged screen.

Peter understood all too well what the other man meant, and he silently pitied Carlton for the impending death of his career. "We'll do what we can to help." Diverting his eyes from the flustered manager, Peter watched as the EMTs carried a dazed-looking man in a security uniform out the doors on a stretcher before asking, "Were you the one who discovered the theft?"

"Ah, yes, yes. I was the first one in this morning," Carlton responded, mopping up the sweat pooling on his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "I got here around 6 AM and expected to find the night guard at his post. When I didn't see him there, I headed straight for the vault, only to find Howard on the floor with some strange dart-thingy in his neck and $80 million missing from the safe. Evidently, it wasn't a great way to start the morning."

"Do you know what time the theft took place? Is there any security footage?" Peter questioned, making a note to speak with the knocked-out security guard, Howard, once he was fully coherent.

The nervous man rapidly shook his head, resembling a bobblehead with a tightly coiled spring. "The cameras cut out at around 10:15 last night, and they didn't come back on until 10:32. I assume that's when the robbery took place."

Diana offered up a question of her own. "Was there any evidence of tampering with the security system besides the cameras?"

"It was just the cameras," Carlton affirmed. "Whoever's behind this knew the six-digit code to unlock the door and somehow managed to get past the fingerprint-identification mechanism."

This caused Peter's eyebrows to rise. "Do you suppose this was an inside job?"

Before the manager could answer, a voice called out to Peter. The agent turned to see Jones heading towards him, brandishing a notepad and a sheet of paper.

"Security managed to get a match on the print used to get into the vault at 10:19 last night," he announced, shifting his gaze down to the notepad before slipping it to Peter.

The senior agent's eyebrows rose in curiosity as he read the paper. Lifting his head, he shot the same look at Carlton.

"My print? Me?" the panicking manager squeaked, even more skittish than before. "No. No. I left here a little after 9:30 last night. Went home and watched that spy show with my wife—you know, the one with the blonde CIA agent and the techie guy? Ask my wife if you don't believe me; she'll tell you."

"Trust me, we will be following up on that," Diana affirmed.

With all the commotion after the fingerprint revelation, Jones had been left in the dust before he could continue. Finding an opening, he passed the sheet of paper to Peter, murmuring quietly, "You'll never believe who stopped in yesterday afternoon. I'm not even sure if _I_ believe it." He nodded to the paper, which Peter could now tell was a glossy photo. One look at the man taking a small printed envelope from a blonde woman behind the teller window, and his eyes widened in shock.

"Adler?" he breathed in bewilderment. "No, that can't be possible. It _can't_ be. He— he was dead, I know he was." Peter tried to prove it to himself, plunging headfirst into the memory where he aimed his gun and fired a single shot at Vincent Adler's back. The gunshot still rang out loud and clear in his mind as he watched the other man fall once more, exposing Neal—Adler's would-have-been victim. Peter ran through the familiar scene over and over again, but the outcome was always the same—he had been so concerned with the wellbeing of his partner to notice if the crooked businessman was still breathing.

He handed the photo to Diana, who took it in her own shaky hands. Silently cursing his decision to grant Neal the day off, Peter finally grumbled, "Great. This is going to make things much more complicated." He reclaimed the photo from Diana and held it up to Carlton. "Do you recognize him?"

Just as the manager vehemently shook his head, a quiet voice chimed in. "Yes."

Peter hastily turned around to find the blonde woman from the photo standing off to the side, hands tucked into the pockets of her teal-colored jacket.

"Kim?" Carlton questioned the newcomer. "You know this man?" As a means of introduction, he murmured to Peter, "Kim Campbell. One of my finest employees."

Peter shot Kim a glance and wearily turned his eyes skyward. _Great. There's the bank-teller-in-distress. _After he took another look at the blonde and noticed the sudden shine in her eyes, the sighs of exasperation soon turned into silent praying. _Please do not start crying, please do not start crying, _please_ do not start crying…_

Thankfully, Diana took over. Approaching Kim with the photo, she asked gently, "How do you know this man?"

The blonde looked down and tapped her heels together nervously. "He… he came in around 2:30 yesterday afternoon and wanted to make a withdrawal of $200 from an account under the name, ah, Raphael Duper. He gave me the driver's license to prove it. That was when I realized he looked familiar to me, yet the name didn't ring any bells. Anyways, I made the transaction and gave him the money." She trailed off, soon bringing a hand to her head and mumbling, "Should have known. I should have known something like this was going to happen. Oh, God, this is my fault. All my fault."

"What is, Kim?" Diana asked softly. When the young woman remained silent, Peter stepped forward to help, but Diana shot him a look that said, "_Really_, Boss?" and motioned towards the distraught Kim. The senior agent slumped and nodded again. She had him there. If the young teller burst into tears, he was dead in the water. So, he stepped back and allowed Diana to continue her questioning. "What do you think is your fault?" she tried again.

That did the trick. A second later, Kim blurted, "When he was leaving, this 'Duper' guy bumped past Mr. Carlton. He was a little ways away, but I think I saw him slip something into Mr. Carlton's jacket." She looked up at her employer, who was once again panicking over the messages on his phone. Kim's head perked up as an epiphany hit her, and she pointed to the device. "That's what it was. Duper must have grabbed it on his way in and replaced it on his way out."

Carlton froze at the revelation, glancing down at the screen before showing it to Peter. "Well, if it was this 'Duper' guy, and he did take my phone, couldn't he have gotten my print from the screen?'

"It's entirely possible," Peter admitted, not ready to declare Carlton innocent. However, he was growing even more agitated as Adler's involvement (and survival) became more and more probable.

Diana turned back to Kim to wrap up her questioning. "Was there anything else about this man that made him suspicious?"

"Y-yeah," Kim stammered, looking down at her feet. "He— he said he wanted to see his accountant. I should have known something was wrong when he said that."

Peter's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"I know every accountant who works here. The name he gave me… it wasn't anyone I knew."

"What was the name?" Carlton asked, attempting to soothe the unsettled woman. "Kim, if you tell us the name, we might get a hit with one of the other banks within the company. I can make a few calls."

The blonde remained silent for a moment, as if contemplating this option. Finally, she turned her haunted gaze back to the group, which was anticipating a response.

"The accountant's name was Larkin. Bryce Larkin. Duper said he wanted to let him know he was back."

. . .

**A/N2: **And this officially begins Peter's side of the story. Next is another Neal chapter that might explain a few things and connect the _Chuck_ and _White Collar_ worlds some more.

(Oh, and for the record, the "spy show" mentioned in this chapter is _Covert Affairs_, not _Chuck_. Although, it could have gone either way with the generic "blonde CIA agent and the techie guy" summary, not to mention the "Agent Walker" part. I do enjoy both shows, though.)

Anyways, Chapter 4 should be up next week.

Until then,

AQotL


	4. Identity Crisis

**A/N: **My writing time is slowly starting to diminish, hence why this is a little bit late. I'll still try to update when I can, though.

As for the cliffhanger from the last chapter, that will be addressed in the next chapter, and things will slowly start to unfold. This time around, though, we return to Neal's internal conflict and get a little bit more backstory.

Just a quick note: remember, this goes AU before the end of "Under the Radar," so our favorite duo still doesn't know that the treasure's still out there (that's not to say anyone else knows, though…).

**Identity Crisis**

_Are you scared of the past?_

_Do you think that you might crash?_

_Do you think you're in too deep?_

_Are you afraid to sleep?_

_Are you scared there's no stability?_

_Are you afraid of your own fragility?_

_- Pauley Perrette, "Fear"_

"Home sweet home."

Neal let out a dark laugh as he dropped the duffel bag in the center of the empty room, a cloud of dust exploding in the air as the bag made contact with the floor. It had been a while—months—since he'd last been inside the old apartment, but everything looked the same. Well, that metal folding chair tucked in the corner looked the same, as it was the only piece of furniture left in the entire apartment.

Getting right down to business, Neal moved into the adjoining room—the room that had once been his and Kate's bedroom. A pang of sadness filled his chest at the thought, but he straightened his back proudly and crouched down next to the wall. He ran his fingers across the painted plaster, not stopping until he felt the two parallel incisions running vertically to meet two horizontal slits at the bottom and middle of the wall. Removing a small knife from the duffel bag, Neal slipped the blade under one of the cuts and pried the rectangular panel off of the wall. Setting it aside, he reached inside and removed a stack of faded, dust-covered folders.

Ever since the start of the operation back in 2003, Neal's life was completely defined by files. The people he encountered, the places he visited, the situations he participated in, and even his identity were summarized on sheets of paper inside these dark folders, all marked with an all-too-familiar seal. Each file was read over thoroughly and promptly stored inside the wall for safekeeping. However, as complications arose and the supposedly simple operation became more long-term, Neal began to have issues with storing the classified documents (it wasn't safe to have CIA briefing files hidden in the apartment when Kate was still there). Eventually, an unfortunate incident in 2006 involving a painting, a cocktail party, a certain conspiracy-theorizing conman, half a dozen Russian gangsters with guns, and a blowtorch ended on a positive note: Neal found a new place to keep the files and other "super secret government conspiracy stuff," as long as the little man leasing the space could take a peek them as well (off the record, of course).

The storage container Mozzie graciously provided temporarily housed the documents while Neal was supposed to be serving his four-year sentence, and the files were moved back to the abandoned apartment shortly after the anklet was first snapped on (Kate would no longer be using the apartment, and it worked better for the two-mile radius issue). Though he often tried to avoid thinking about his CIA life, Neal reluctantly stopped in from time to time in order to sort out his extensive undercover mission. He also assumed Mozzie exercised his privileges as an unofficial CIA informant/messenger and made a couple of trips to the apartment as well, for there were notes in almost every file that reeked of skepticism. Still, Neal appreciated Mozzie's help—at least he had someone to talk to when the undercover life got complicated.

His mind going back to the stack of papers in front of him, Neal selected one of the folders and flipped open the cover, only to stare down at his own photo. _Neal Caffrey _was typed in a generic font underneath the picture, followed by other bits of identification. The following pages didn't have much typed on them, as they were mainly made up of scrawled notes saying things like 'Raphael painting from '05—insurance investigator: Sara Ellis' and 'father—deceased; mother—?'. Flipping back to the faded front cover of the folder, Neal realized he was looking at the original file establishing the Neal Caffrey identity—the file that started it all. Almost immediately, an image filled his mind, and Neal surrendered himself to Bryce Larkin's memories.

_The hallway seemed to go on forever, leading into a vortex of gray. Bryce fidgeted with his sloppily knotted tie (he was still trying to ease himself out of his frat-boy persona) in the same drab shade as he cautiously followed another agent to their destination. That is, if they ever got there. _

_ The tie was completely damp with sweat from Bryce's palms when his guide finally paused in front of a door marked only by a plaque. Though he couldn't read what was etched into the metallic label, Bryce knew exactly what—or rather, who—was behind the door. He nearly balked as his mind finally caught up with the situation (was he even ready for this?), but the other agent threw open the door and called, "Director, Agent Larkin is here."_

_ "Ah, yes, Larkin," a deep baritone voice replied in acknowledgement. "Come in."_

_ As his presence was announced, Bryce had frozen in terror—a feeling he rarely experienced. For the first time, the almost cocky confidence that fueled him had completely drained out. He didn't even know why he was so nervous; this was just a debriefing. It wasn't like he hadn't gone through the process before. Although, he was a different man than he was the last time he stopped by the director's office—his latest mission took out a giant chunk of the little innocence that was left in him. After a moment of indecisiveness, he finally stepped through the doorway and into the center of the room._

_ "Agent Larkin," Graham started, looking up briefly as he waited for Bryce's companion to leave the room. When the door clicked shut, his eyes traveled to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, take a seat."_

_ Bryce obliged, slowly sinking into the slightly cushioned chair. He leaned back against the backrest, but his posture remained rigid. Blue eyes cautiously followed the movements of the director's hands as he slipped a folder from the stack to his left and set it on the table._

_ "First off, well done on the Mendoza assignment," Graham said, flipping open the file. "Thanks to your work, a national security threat has been successfully eliminated."_

_ "Ah, thank you, sir," Bryce replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Although he accomplished his mission, it still bothered him that success required him to kill someone. Sure, Mendoza was a 'national security threat,' as Graham had phrased it, but did that mean everyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the path of Bryce's gun would be one as well? The thought still sickened what was left of Bryce Larkin from Connecticut, but Bryce Larkin of the CIA was slowly coming to terms with it. The idea that he could someday kill someone without any emotional thought still scared Bryce more than anything, though._

_ Graham eyed Bryce carefully, noting his discomfort. With a light sigh, he turned back to the folder before him. "However, as we were going through Pierce Mendoza's database, we found records of frequent contact between him and this man." At that, he removed a photo of a serious-looking man in a tailored gray suit and handed it to Bryce. "This is Vincent Adler. He's a hedge-fund manager and art collector."_

_ Bryce raised his eyebrows as he examined the picture of Adler. The man didn't look like a criminal mastermind—at least, according to the CIA's version of the term. "Why was he in contact with Mendoza?"_

_ The older man met his eyes and responded, "Right now, we're not sure. We figure he was siphoning money from his company to fund Mendoza's operation in Italy, but he might be into something bigger." He paused to grab another folder from the pile and passed it to Bryce. "That's where you come in. You'll be going undercover inside the company. It's up to you to become part of Adler's inner circle and find out what he's up to. Identification and information on your cover is inside."_

_ "Understood," Bryce muttered, turning back to the offered file. He lifted the cover, causing a navy blue passport to slide out. Curious, he flipped it open to find his standard Agency photo staring back at him with the name "Neal Caffrey" typed next to it. He cocked his head in acceptance of the name before moving on to the rest of the cover. After reading just a few lines, his eyebrows shot up quizzically. "A forger? I'm supposed to be a con man?"_

_ Graham nodded, confirming Bryce's conclusion. "It was the cover that best fit our needs. Adler is a high-profile businessman—there has to be at least one con man out there with a plan to scam him, and a con man planning a con must learn everything there is to know about his mark. The only way you'll get any information on Adler is if you establish connections in the criminal underground, and you need to convincingly pass yourself off as one of their own for that to happen. Also, if Adler catches on, he won't suspect the CIA—he'll just think you're trying to con him." Noticing the young agent's uncertainty, the director asked, "Agent Larkin, are you prepared to take on this assignment?"_

_ Bryce remained silent for a moment, staring contemplatively at the passport. It was strange to see his photo paired with a different name, but wasn't that how life in the CIA was supposed to be? Agents changed aliases from mission to mission, molding an alternate persona to fit with the situation—in a sense, CIA missions were elaborate, government-sanctioned cons. A moment after making this comparison, he finally glanced up and said, "I guess I'll have to brush up on my art history."_

_ A small grin began to form on Graham's face as Bryce's guide returned to show him out. "Good," the director murmured with a curt nod. "Your mission officially begins tomorrow, Agent Larkin. You'll find everything you need in the file."_

Tearing himself out of his reverie, Neal balled his left hand into a fist and pounded it on the floor, causing folders at the top of the stack to slide down. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration as Adler's name rang through his head.

He originally thought it was a simple mission. That assumption was immediately proven wrong when Mozzie suggested the Adler con (that was part of the CIA's plan—have an actual con man make the first move) and announced that it would take six months. Then Kate came along, diverting both Neal _and _Bryce from the tasks at hand. He'd fallen hard and fast, which in turn led to sloppy mistakes. Eventually, all of those mistakes combined into one tremendous mess with consequences on both fronts: Adler escaped the clutches of Bryce Larkin, and Neal Caffrey would soon fall into the FBI's.

When Graham heard of Adler's disappearance, he hadn't been pleased, to say the least. Add in Peter Burke and the prototype of the White Collar Crimes Unit, and the CIA director seemed ready to issue Bryce's burn notice. It took a lot of convincing on the young agent's part (pretending to be a con man for half a year paid off), but he managed to dissuade his superior from terminating the mission all together. Even if Adler got away, Bryce could still look into that mysterious music box Adler seemed so interested in.

In time, though, the future of the assignment became hazier. Too many attempts to dig up information on Adler had failed, and the FBI was closing in. To top it off, his longing for Kate—which had been tucked away as the Agent Larkin part of him became dominant—only grew stronger. Graham didn't even make it past the first half of 2005 when he finally closed the book on the Adler mission and determined that Neal Caffrey would be arrested. Bryce was glad that at least Kate got to see him—rather, Neal—one more time before the FBI burst in and whisked him away.

Though Neal Caffrey was tried and sentenced to four years in jail, he never really served his sentence. Bryce dressed in the orange jumpsuit and was locked in a Supermax cell a few times to keep up appearances (just in case the FBI came calling, or whenever Kate stopped by), but the CIA covered for him most of the time. All it took was some prerecorded security footage and a few guards with Agency connections to cement the façade, and Neal Caffrey became the invisible man of the Supermax.

Aside from dropping by the prison for the smoke-and-mirrors routine, Bryce distanced himself from the remnants of the terminated mission. He discarded the lingering con man qualities to make room for the full-blown super-spy traits, and tried to forget about the other life he'd been forced to desert. It proved to be much harder than he thought, especially when he thought of the long-term lie as another life.

Bryce supposed it was a good thing to think of his stint as Neal Caffrey as living another life, especially after his latest near-death (no, _full-death—_again) experience. With almost the entire intelligence community believing he was dead—either by John Casey's hand in 2007 or by some Ring agent's gun in 2009—it was the perfect opportunity for Beckman to resurrect the Neal Caffrey identity and the hunt for Vincent Adler.

The fist came down on the floor again when everything looped back to Adler once more. Neal grimaced when he saw the cruel, scheming man in his mind, aiming a gun at his chest. Furious accusations flew out of his mouth as his finger caressed the trigger. The shot rang out, and Adler stiffened before crumpling in a heap at Peter's feet. The FBI agent had saved Neal's life, but had unwittingly killed the reason why Neal Caffrey was created.

The treasure, Adler—all of it was gone. The mission was dead for good this time, now that all the evidence that could have revealed the shady man's real activities had perished. If everything had gone according to plan, Neal would have turned over both Adler and the U-boat's contents to the CIA, and Bryce would have risen again.

Perhaps that was the reason for the sudden conflict between the two personalities. Bryce had come so close to freedom, only to be shoved back into the shadows. Neal had almost evolved into a real person, and had rebelled against the impending overthrow. The balance he'd struggled with for so long had been thrown off with that failure, leaving him back at square one with his "identity crisis" issues.

Also, it didn't help that he was stuck in mission limbo for the foreseeable future while General Beckman evaluated the situation. Since the entire operation had (literally) blown up in his face, it wasn't easy for his superior to determine his fate. After all, the Neal Caffrey identity was much too defined and had established too many connections to be terminated quietly. If he ran, the FBI would be back on full alert, and Peter would somehow manage to track him down and drag him back inside his two-mile radius before he even made it to Langley. He wasn't too fond of faking his death either, especially after dying for real the last two times he'd gone with that angle.

But if Bryce couldn't come back from the dead without erasing Neal's existence (which he had now deemed impossible), what was he supposed to do with his life? Sure, he helped the FBI solve crimes, but it was only a means to get to Adler. Plus, that was Neal's job. Bryce was supposed to be out traveling the world, taking down vicious spies and stealing information in-between dancing the lambada at consulate dinners.

He let out an exasperated groan as the ongoing debate assaulted his mind. His hands flew to his head, and he massaged his temples to counteract the dull ache. Apparently, his issues were going to take a lot longer to sort out than he originally thought.

. . .

**A/N 2: **Well, now we've gotten inside Neal's head a little bit, and what a complicated place it is. We'll pick up in the next chapter with Peter again and see how his investigation is going. I'll get that chapter up when I can.

Just a few more days until the _White Collar_ mid-season finale and (most likely) another frustrating cliffhanger…


	5. Shedding Some Light

**A/N: **Well, this one's much later than I planned, but I've been so busy lately that my writing time is approaching nonexistent. I'll try to post a few more chapters before Real Life forces me on hiatus, though.

Anyways, here's Chapter 5. We're back to Peter again, and yes, we will get _some_ resolution to the cliffhanger from Chapter 3.

That being said, enjoy!

**Shedding Some Light**

_A Secret told – _

_Ceases to be a Secret – then – _

_A Secret – kept – _

_That – can appal but One – _

_- Emily Dickinson_

Peter stared at the notes scattered across his desk in dismay, and started grumbling nonsense to himself. He'd gone over everything half a dozen times, but the results were always the same—he was solving a crime committed by a dead man.

His gaze drifted over to the photo tucked underneath a notepad in the upper right-hand corner of his desk, and he yanked it out angrily. The image of Vincent Adler greeted him mockingly, as if to say, "Fooled you." The worst thing about it for Peter was that Adler had indeed fooled him.

He could have sworn the man was dead—he'd watched him fall, collapsing in a heap on the ground. He'd kicked the crooked conman's gun away after a long, shocked stare at his lifeless face. Adler's body had supposedly accompanied those of his men to the morgue, and Peter had spent hours of an already long day filling out a report on his part in the man's demise. Yet, somehow, the dead man managed to make a withdrawal from a bank account the previous day, and most likely robbed the same bank hours later.

Adler's stop at the bank the day earlier lingered in Peter's mind, and he held up a sticky note with the name 'Raphael Duper' scrawled on it. Anger burned in his eyes as he stared at the name, and his crushing grip came down on the flimsy paper. Originally, Peter believed the name was a simple, meaningless alias Adler was using; however, things slowly started fall into place. The alias was just another taunting message—'Raphael' surely referenced Neal's fascination with said artist, and it didn't take Peter much longer to realize that 'Duper' was French, meaning 'to con." Like he needed another reminder that Adler deceived him.

Busy seething over the files, Peter barely heard the knock on his office door. He looked up to see Diana wave at him on the other side of the glass, and he nodded to approve her entrance.

"Hey, Boss," she greeted casually. "Anything new?"

Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting the paper in his hand flop ungracefully back onto the desk. "Nothing that we didn't already know."

She shifted and leaned against the doorframe as she tried again. "How'd it go with the security guard? Did he have any information?"

A sarcastic snort was the response. "The guy was still trying to shake off the effects of the tranquilizer. All he could tell me was that he was at his post last night when he heard something hiss and hit his neck before everything went black. After he told me that, he proceeded to mutter something about babies and snails or something before he passed out again."

Diana hesitated a moment in slight disappointment, then turned to look over her shoulder. "Michael Carlton's here to see you," she announced as she turned back to Peter. "He says he has the information you requested."

The superior agent raised his eyebrows. "Did his alibi check out?"

Diana smirked. "Carlton's wife was quite insistent that her husband was innocent. Aside from declaring that he was home with her all night, she summarized the episode of the show they were watching when the robbery took place."

"And…?"

"She described everything, right down to the commercial breaks. If I hadn't already watched it, the entire episode would have been spoiled for me." In response to her boss's curious look, Diana shrugged, "It's on TV when Christie and I normally get home."

Peter nodded before going back to the reason Diana entered his office. "You said Carlton had some information. He found this mysterious Bryce Larkin?" he asked, his tone incredulous but hopeful.

"I suppose so. You want me to send him up?"

Peter nodded vigorously, and Diana beckoned to the perpetually unnerved man below. Carlton noticed the prompt and was up the stairs in no time.

"Ah, yes, Agent Burke," he said almost breathlessly as he slipped through the door, which Diana held open. He gave her a nod of thanks as she headed out, and quickly removed a folder from his jacket pocket. "Well, I managed to get a copy of Bryce Larkin's file from our D.C. bank, where he was employed. Unfortunately, there's not much to it, and the information only goes up to 2007."

"Did he quit?" Peter wondered, taking the offered folder.

Carlton shook his head. "No, he didn't quit—he died sometime in September '07. The obituary… wait, did I put that in the folder?" He commandeered the folder once more and shuffled through the stack of papers before finding the one he sought. Handing it back, he continued, "Yeah, it's in there. Anyways, the obit mentioned something about a bank robbery." He paused, mouth open as if he was about to say something else, but flapped his hand towards the folder and stammered, "Y-you know, I'll just let you read it. I hope the file will help your investigation." After quickly shaking Peter's hand, he turned and headed out of the office.

Peter slowly shook his head as he watched Carlton depart. The flustered bank manager had passed on the information so fast that Peter's mind was still processing the meeting itself. The FBI agent felt sorry for the employees working under Carlton, who had to deal with the anxious man each day.

Once Carlton disappeared from sight, Peter moved over to his desk and placed the folder on top of it while he slid into his chair. He let out a frustrated sigh when he saw Adler's face poking out from underneath the folder, and he shoved the photo away in disgust. With that taken care of, he threw back the top flap of the folder and started on the stack of documents.

The first few pages of Bryce Larkin's file consisted of his employment record, which Peter briefly glossed over. There wasn't too much information he could use—the employment record was very sparse and only went from 2003 to 2007, and, surprisingly, a résumé was not included. Peter let out another sigh at his rotten luck and moved on to the next page. He froze when he got a glimpse of it.

As promised, Carlton had included a copy of Bryce Larkin's obituary. However, it wasn't the details of the accountant's death that shocked Peter. It was the picture that accompanied the article.

Bryce Larkin was a rather handsome young man, his features clearly defined even with the semi-grainy quality of the black and white photo. A serious expression was paired with his sleek black suit, and he stared blankly out from the paper at the shocked FBI agent.

Peter was certain that he was hallucinating. He'd been hard at work these past few hours, and his stress levels were already well above the healthy normal. Usually, his stress levels spiked on days where Neal had done something incredibly stupid and impulsive. If the photo wasn't some trick Peter's eyes were playing on him, the day's bout of high blood pressure and panic just might be Neal's fault as well.

Bryce Larkin was a handsome young man dressed in a dark dress suit. If he had also been wearing a black fedora and a charming but mischievous grin, Peter could have sworn he was staring at Neal Caffrey.

. . .

**A/N 2: **I did say _some _resolution to the previous cliffhanger—Peter's not going to find out about everything quite yet. At least he knows now that things aren't as they seem…

There's quite a bit going on in Chapter 6. We'll pick up at the beginning of the next chapter with Neal, and then we'll have the first lengthy scene with both Peter and Neal before diverging once more. I hope to have that chapter up sometime next week.

Let me know what you think.

Until then,

AQotL


	6. Unearthing a Dead Man

**A/N: **First off, I just want to say thanks so much for all the reviews/favorites/alerts. You guys are seriously—like the Captain—_awesome_.

Like I said before, there's a lot going on in this chapter—I think it's one of my favorites so far. Not only do we get a conversation between Peter and Neal on last chapter's cliffhanger, but there's also some events leading up to an even bigger collision between the two worlds.

Note: Some subtle spoilers for "Casey vs. the Anti-Suit" come in later on in the chapter, mainly relating to Mozzie's side job established in the aforementioned fic.

**Unearthing a Dead Man**

_I'm not calling you a liar,_

_Just don't lie to me._

_I'm not calling you a thief,_

_Just don't steal from me._

_I'm not calling you a ghost,_

_Just stop haunting me._

_ - Florence + The Machine; "I'm Not Calling You a Liar"_

_Neal. Office. Now._

The consultant shook his head at the message displayed on his cell phone as he clipped the anklet back on. Sure, he had promised to stop by later that afternoon to catch up on the case, but he hadn't expected to be summoned to the FBI office so soon. Peter couldn't possibly have had a break in the case that fast, could he?

With a shrug, Neal tucked his phone in his pocket as he slipped on his suit jacket. He prepared to close the closet door when something caught his eye. Draped carefully on a hanger near the back of the narrow storage space was a dark black zippered jacket. Neal tried to tear his eyes away as a shudder ran through his body, but his feet had a different idea.

Stepping back inside, he reached towards the hanging rack and removed the item he sought. The two silver button snaps near the collar shone in the light as he brought out the jacket, clicking together softly as the hanger jostled. Neal ran his fingers over the smooth fabric as a memory played behind his eyelids. His thoughts turned gruesome when his thumb brushed against a stiff section of the fabric that was tainted with burgundy. Before his train of thought could head any further into his grim reverie, Neal threw the jacket back onto the rack and hastily exited the room. He'd spent enough time diving back into Bryce's memories for one day; plus, some memories were kept locked away for a reason.

. . .

Peter was already waiting for him when Neal finally climbed the stairs up to the agent's office. The conman casually pulled open the door at the front of the glass-paned room, expecting a sarcastic quip or a frustrated sigh from his friend. He wasn't prepared for Peter's actual greeting: "Well, hello there, Bryce."

Neal's heart stopped for the third time over the span of four years with that comment. He tensed up and his eyes flitted around nervously as he pondered the possibility that he'd been drugged and dumped inside an enemy agency's elaborately staged interrogation room (he figured it was a more reasonable theory than stumbling into an alternate universe). His mind went into overdrive as he searched for a possible weapon, but he stopped when "Peter" (he still wasn't certain that the man was the real Peter) held up a sheet of paper and asked, "You mind explaining this, Neal?"

The usage of his cover name lowered Neal's paranoia levels (an unfortunate habit he'd gradually picked up from Mozzie over the years), and he relaxed a bit. This was real, not a trap or an alternate universe. He shook his head at his frenzied thoughts and took a seat across from Peter, accepting the offered paper.

Maybe he wasn't out of the woods yet. Neal slowly began to panic again when his eyes dropped down to the paper. It was the obituary the CIA had drawn up after the first time he died, spewing out lies about his cover career as an accountant and unfortunate demise in a bank robbery. And then there was that mention of his family—it still killed him inside that the obituary was the official story they'd been given about his first death, and they still didn't know he was actually alive. He knew this was CIA protocol (even though his situation was unusual), but it still didn't seem right.

"Well?" Peter's impatient prompt dragged Neal back to reality. "Why have I never heard of Bryce Larkin the accountant before? What's the story behind that?"

After all of the preparation he'd done before first slipping into the Neal Caffrey identity, this was the one thing the consultant had not planned. Then again, he never expected Peter to discover his real name in the first place. He hastily began to craft a cover story, but froze when he took his previous thought a little further. "Wait, how did you even find out about that?"

"The name came up at the crime scene today," Peter sighed, realizing that Neal was trying to stall. "I got the employment record and obit from the bank's manager."

The younger man pressed on, trying to get as much information as possible so he could mold the cover story as best as he could. "There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

That seemed to do the trick. Peter closed his eyes and let out another sigh as he reluctantly handed Neal a photo. "See for yourself."

It was official: Vincent Adler was literally haunting him and purposely making his life difficult. Neal winced with that thought as he realized how familiar he was with the tactic. _So, this is how Chuck felt every time I came crashing back into his life._

"But— but— you shot him. He's dead," he stammered lamely, momentarily forgetting his personal experiences with the same situation. Just because someone dies from a gunshot wound doesn't mean a shady intelligence group can't revive that person and start a cycle of die, revive, die again, revive again. "You think he's behind the robbery?"

Peter nodded slowly. "He probably did it to get our attention, to say, 'Guess what, I'm still alive!' He's taunting us." He motioned to various papers related to the case on his desk to make his point before lifting his gaze back up to Neal. "He's specifically taunting _you_ with the Bryce Larkin message. Which reminds me—you still owe me an explanation."

"It was a con," Neal blurted, his minding still scrambling to come up with a story. "I got a job at the bank as an accountant to scam large companies. I guess it was my way of making up for the failed Adler con."

"Hmm," Peter murmured as he tapped a pen against the table. "And, ah, how did that go?"

"Do you think I would have been traveling the world, searching for priceless paintings to steal and forge if it had gone well?"

Peter merely stared at him, his left eyebrow arched just slightly.

"Okay, fine, you have a point there. But to answer your question, no, it didn't go well. I gave up a few months after I started."

"Well, why does the employment record go from 2003 to 2007?" Peter lifted said sheet of paper.

Neal smiled wryly. "You do know this is me we're talking about here, right? Most of it is forged. I was still employed by the bank. As far as they were concerned, I was traveling and managing financials for clients worldwide."

His eyebrow was still arched skeptically, but Peter accepted that explanation. "Well, according to the obit, 'Bryce Larkin' died in September '07. You were in jail at the time. How did the story of your 'death' come about?"

"It's the best way to cover for someone who doesn't actually exist." It felt strange to say that, but Neal just went with it. He smiled and added, "As for how the story got out, I think it's sufficient enough to say I have friends who make themselves useful every now and then."

There was a moment of silence, but eventually Peter looked him in the eye and asked seriously, "That's the story?"

Neal nodded, echoing, "That's the story."

"Okay." Peter broke the gaze and shuffled the papers on his desk into a somewhat ordered pile. He set the stack to the side and stood up, glancing at the door. "There's a copy of the case file on your desk. Take a look over it and see if you find anything new."

Neal slipped out of his chair as well and headed towards the stairs, but paused when he noticed Peter was following him out the door. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah. I'm meeting Elizabeth for lunch. Can I trust you to behave while I'm gone?" Peter sounded like an overly watchful parent with that comment, but something in his tone told Neal that the agent was being mildly serious.

"Of course, of course. I'll be fine, trust me."

"Good. I'll be back in about an hour." Peter took one last look at Neal before stepping down the stairs and heading for the elevators.

Still standing at the top of the stairs, the consultant watched his friend vanish from sight, quietly going over their previous conversation. Peter had accepted the cover story with just the slightest bit of skepticism, and did not press any further once Neal had answered all his questions. However, it wasn't the older man's reaction to the explanation (correction—_lie_) that bothered Neal. It was the look in his eyes when Neal said the words "Trust me"—a sinking look of disbelief.

. . .

Sometimes Peter hated working with a conman. Most of the time it was Neal's trivial characteristics that got him—that stupid hat, the charming yet mischievous grin, the tendency to ignore orders and improvise—but those were easily forgotten by the end of the day (well, oftentimes it took a few days to get over the improvisation issue). The one attribute that truly bothered Peter was the lies—such as the ones Neal (who he was certain was not and never had been an accountant) had just told him.

Peter knew there was so much more to the Bryce Larkin story than Neal was inclined to share, which was why he was standing outside a familiar door, waiting for the person on the other side to open up. He'd turned the tables on Neal with his lunch date excuse, although it wasn't a complete lie. If he got the information he needed fast enough, he'd still have some time to pick up Elizabeth and take her to their favorite restaurant for a late lunch. However, after remembering exactly who he would soon be speaking with, Peter found that plan highly improbable.

"Neal's not here, Suit," was the first thing out of Mozzie's mouth as he opened the door. "And I have no interest in speaking with you. Silence is golden."

He quickly tried to close the door, but Peter stuck out his foot to stop it and held up a sheet of paper. "Yeah, but handcuffs are silver. Now, tell me about this before you get matching bracelets slapped on your wrists."

The door creaked open a tiny bit as Mozzie peered through the crack at the paper. His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses as he recognized it. "Why don't you ask Neal about it?"

"Do you think I would be standing here if I hadn't already asked him?"

"Ah. You have a point." The door swung open all the way, allowing Peter to enter. He glanced around the room for a moment before moving over to the kitchen table, waiting for Mozzie to join him.

The balding conman leaned against the door, arms crossed across his chest as it quickly closed with a loud click. "Just so you know, you won't get any information out of me unless the government goes at me with a mind probe and I am incapacitated to the point where I cannot resist. In other words, they'll have to pry any secrets from my cold, dead brain. Anyways, your issue, Suit?"

Peter let out a frustrated sigh and stared at the ceiling. _This is why I avoid associating with conspiracy theorists. _"You mind telling me why, according to this obituary, Neal is an accountant named Bryce Larkin who died in 2007? Don't try to tell me it was some sort of con to scam businessmen. I know that's a lie."

Mozzie twitched nervously, but he managed to keep his composure. "I wasn't going to say that, Suit. Although, what makes you think that was a lie?"

"I know Neal well enough to know when he isn't being entirely honest with me. He tries to hide it, but his expression always seems a little… off."

" 'False face must hide what the false heart doth know'—_Macbeth,_ Act I, Scene 7," Mozzie quoted, moving towards the counter and picking up a wine bottle. "It's what we do, Suit. We lie to cover for the truth, but we make it look like the lie _is_ the truth."

Peter brought a hand to his head and closed his eyes. "I got lost trying to follow what you just said. Are you doing that on purpose?"

"We have a mutual distrust. I'm just trying to hold up my end of it." Wineglass and bottle in hand, Mozzie paused. "You didn't come here just to talk about Neal, did you?"

Peter shook his head. "No. I came here for answers. And you're the only other person who can give them to me."

"Ah, _can_ is the key word there. That doesn't mean I will, Suit."

"I need to know, Mozzie."

"Attorney-client confidentiality. I cannot divulge any information my client may or may not have given me."

Peter finally had enough. After Mozzie finished going on about confidentiality, the FBI agent removed another sheet from his jacket and held it up. "Why does Vincent Adler know about Bryce Larkin?"

That did it. Mozzie stared wide-eyed at the photo in disbelief, falling as silent as he ever had been.

"This photo isn't doctored, is it?" he asked quietly after a few moments. "He's really still alive?" A somber nod from Peter confirmed his questions.

"What's so important about that alias that Adler's using it to taunt Neal?" Peter questioned, barely registering Mozzie's flinching at the word 'alias'. "Mozzie, I need to know so we can figure out Adler's plans. This is for Neal's sake."

The bespectacled con man was quiet for a moment, but finally spoke up slowly. "I'm still under attorney-client confidentiality, but I do know someone else who might be able to help." At that, he produced a pen and scrawled a phone number on Peter's copy of the obituary, discreetly slipping the pen back in the agent's pocket once he was finished. "I occasionally deliver information—what type, you don't need to know—to those who are looking for it."

Peter interrupted him. "You mean to say you're an informant?"

"I never said anything of the sort, Suit. Anyways, one of my clients has access to some information even the _Federal Bureau of Investigation_," (Mozzie emphasized each word in a mocking tone) "fails to possess. This is the number for the company he works for. Even if he's not the one to answer, any of his teammates could probably tell you what you need to know."

Taking the paper back, Peter thanked Mozzie and turned to leave. Now he could set this side investigation aside for a little while and enjoy lunch with his wife.

Mozzie, on the other hand, poured himself another glass of wine and took a seat as he listened to Peter's footsteps die away down the hall. Once everything fell silent, he lifted the glass in a small salute and sighed cautiously, "This is for your own good, Neal."

. . .

**A/N 2: **Hey, we finally learned the back-story behind the title of this fic! I just thought that quote worked so well with this story that I had to use it.

Now for the moment of truth: this is quite likely the last chapter for a little while. Real Life is officially forcing me on hiatus for the foreseeable future, so unless I can scrounge up a large chunk of writing time in my busy schedule, the earliest you'll be seeing a new update is mid- to late-October. After that, though, I'll definitely be back.

This is the last chapter I have completely written so far, but I do have Chapters 7 and 8 in progress. Chapter 7 returns to Neal/Bryce's storyline, this time covering the events between the end of "Chuck vs. the Ring" and the _White Collar _pilot. Currently I'm finding it a bit tricky to maneuver through that labyrinth called Neal/Bryce's mind, but with a whole lot of determination I'll work through it. Chapter 8, however, I'm having quite a bit of fun with. Let's just say Peter takes Mozzie's advice and has a phone conversation with a certain curly-haired nerd…

Let me know what you think.

Until then,

AQotL


	7. Areas of Expertise

**A/N: **Sorry for such a late update—I did not plan to be gone this long. The main reason for the delay is "Real Life gave me more trouble than I anticipated and is still kicking me in the butt," but other valid excuses include "I haven't really had a lot of writing time lately," "I discovered a little show called _Leverage_ and I've been using my free time to watch it," and "Neal/Bryce's mind is a freaking_ trap_." Take your pick.

However, the important thing is I finally finished Chapter 7! It's such a relief to finally get that out of the way, especially once I realized I was essentially writing an insanely in-depth character study that just kept feeding me more ideas. Needless to say, this is by far the longest chapter yet (which I realized once I hit over 2000 words and still wasn't a third of the way finished). Without author's notes, this was 10 pages long in Word.

This chapter is more of a filler and takes place entirely in the past, but it's important in bridging the two worlds some more. This fills the gap between "Chuck vs. the Ring" (_Chuck _2x22) and the _White Collar_ pilot, mainly to explain how Bryce truly became Neal.

I'll leave you to it, then. Enjoy!

Note: Direct quote from "Unfinished Business" (_White Collar _2x05); slight references to the _Chuck _pilot, "Chuck vs. the Ring," and the _White Collar _pilot.

**Areas of Expertise**

"_So, what's it like?"_

"_Hmm? Being dead? So far, it's what I imagine prison must be like."_

"_You're equating prison and death?"_

"_I'm sorry, I forgot I was talking to an expert."_

He'd asked that question for a reason, that day on the rooftop where he shared a bottle of confiscated wine with a certain redheaded insurance investigator. It wasn't that he didn't know how it felt to be dead to the rest of the world—that was something he knew all too well. All he wanted was to hear someone else's opinion on the matter, to unwittingly remind him that he wasn't alone. Sara Ellis did just that, hitting the nail on the head with her comparison.

The two had quite a few similarities, really. Prison locks its inhabitants away behind metal bars, letting them fade into nothingness as they are slowly forgotten by the outside world—it's basically death without actually dying.

In Bryce's case, death and prison were always partnered in the twisted dance he called his life—he truly was an "expert" in both subjects. Twice now he'd been fatally struck down by the enemy (or, when it came to Casey, someone who _really _didn't like him), and each time he woke up as a captive.

It wasn't too bad the first time. He didn't really remember all that much about the time after the bullet connected with his chest, just the drastic change of colors—black, then dark red, black again, and finally the blinding white of the CIA medical facility. Occasionally he'd feel a rush of panic when a snippet of that memory hit him, but tightly closed eyes and a stiffened body was all it took to endure the memory until it faded away.

But the second time—oh, God, the second time—was excruciating. Having been in the same position once before, Bryce figured the pain would end quickly and darkness would follow suit. He couldn't have been more incorrect.

Death was held before him, only to be mercilessly pulled right out of reach. Any movement caused him to double over in pain, and his strangled cries died in his throat. He felt even more helpless when he couldn't even make it over to the new Intersect computer to destroy it, instead passing that job off to Chuck once he (literally) dropped in. Despite his best friend's desperate optimism, Bryce felt the end finally coming closer and closer until he took one last shaky breath and felt his head slump to the side.

He expected—welcomed—the sudden shift from that bright white to darkness. It was the uncomfortable, loud, blurry space he found himself in instead that caused him to groan, "Again?"

There had been another team of Ring agents waiting outside in case anything went wrong—of course there was. And, apparently, Bryce's death from a bullet fired by a Ring agent was something that went wrong.

Like Fulcrum before them, the Ring found a way to revive him. However, they managed to accomplish what the smaller agency had failed to.

When he first woke up after the Ring brought him back, he hoped—expected—to be greeted by the standard bright white of the CIA medical facility. Instead, the first thing he saw was a fist flying towards him, and then everything went black again.

The second time he woke up, he found himself bound to a chair. The room was a little bit lighter, and he was conscious enough to get a good look at his surroundings. He soon wished he hadn't taken a peek—hadn't even woken up—for the Ring agent leaning against the opposite wall moved forward, an unsettling grin on his face.

"So you're the legendary Agent Larkin. I've heard much about you—you're quite impressive, really. If only the Agency could see you now, reduced to… _this_. I do think this mars your stellar reputation." He tsked and shook his head in mock disappointment.

Still, Bryce dug up his "legendary Agent Larkin" attitude and fired a smirk back at the other man. "Can't say I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. But don't let that stop you—mind telling me who you are and what you want?"

His companion chuckled and crossed his arms across his chest. "Right to the point, I see. Call me Laurence, if you please. We'll get to know each other quite well." Shifting his hands into his pockets and pacing slowly, he added, "As for what I want, well, I believe you can answer that yourself."

_The Intersect,_ a voice in the back of Bryce's mind piped up, and he had to keep from rolling his eyes at the cliché answer. Why else would they want him—Fulcrum was convinced he viewed the images when he first stole them, and he died in the room that housed the 2.0. Both Fulcrum and the Ring went by misconceptions that Bryce had no interest in correcting; if he continued to play Chuck's part, the Ring wouldn't branch out in search of the real Intersect.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Bryce wriggled his wrists in the restraints and arched an eyebrow at Laurence. "Is it customary for you to restrain your guests like this?"

"Not necessarily. It all depends on how much information they possess and how fast they can provide it." Laurence paused right in front of Bryce's chair and bent down until they were eye-to-eye before he continued, "Here's what I want to know, Agent Larkin: are you going to be that ideal guest?"

There was a moment of hesitation as Bryce seemingly weighed the options. Seconds later, though, he met his captor's eyes once more and the corner of his mouth quirked into a smug grin. The response was blunt:

"Get used to disappointment."

Laurence was unfazed. "I suppose I should have expected that from the great Agent Larkin, but perhaps your decision might change in time." He motioned over his shoulder, and two brutish men entered the room, growing even more eager as they approached Bryce's chair.

After that point, Bryce felt like he was having a strange out-of-body experience—he felt barely coherent, and his mind just didn't seem to comprehend anything he saw. However, it was the searing flashes of pain all across his body that kept him rooted in reality.

He had no idea how long the torture lasted—he'd lost all sense of time ever since he died in front of his disbelieving best friend. All he knew was that the pain got worse the longer he took it, and it was becoming much harder to hold back the agonizing screams.

At some point, the strikes to his body abruptly cut off, and he crashed to the ground as his restraints were loosed. Fire roared all over his body, screaming from wounds he hadn't even realized he'd suffered. But Bryce somehow managed to push through it all and crack a single eye open at his tormentors.

The two men who'd delivered the blows now flanked Laurence, looking more sadistic than ever. He moved forward until his pristine dark shoes were just inches away from Bryce's bloodied face.

"I believe that was enough time to reconsider your decision. Now, care to share some data from that computer in your mind?" He tapped his foot, waiting for an answer.

Bryce's chest heaved as coughs wracked his lungs, thudding in unison with his pounding head. Thoughts assaulted his mind as his internal conflict raged on. The Agent Larkin part of him wanted to laugh at the Ring agent's demand and was ready for the physical onslaught to resume, but that confidence was drowned out by the shrieks of the long-forgotten Bryce of Connecticut—the Bryce who dealt with computers because they were his passion, not because they contained government information; the Bryce whose guns were filled with suction cup ammo, not bullets; the Bryce who only died in video games, not real life. That Bryce was screaming against the pain, just wanting it to _stop_. It was a fair decision: the loudest side was the one that deserved to be heard.

"I… I don't…" Bryce wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of pain crashed. He felt his limbs seize in reaction, and he balled his fist to force the words out of his mouth: "The Intersect… I don't… I never had it."

Silence fell with that revelation, but it only seemed to amplify the pounding of Bryce's heart. It had been so long since he'd stepped up and told the honest truth. It felt different to go against the secrecy format that had been programmed into his mind throughout his CIA career; he just didn't know what consequences awaited him.

"So," Laurence finally spoke up, scuffing his shoe against the floor. "You mean to say you are not, in fact, the Human Intersect, as you've led us and Fulcrum believe."

Bryce's lack of response was enough of an answer.

Laurence's grip latched on to Bryce's shirt (the same one he'd been wearing when he died, only covered in more of his blood), and Bryce was jerked up into a limp standing position. Weakly forcing his eyes open, he met Laurence's unwavering gaze.

"So, you are not the Intersect, but you claimed to be so to protect the real Human Intersect." His eyes widened in glee as the realization hit him. "You know _exactly_ who it is."

A split-second later, Bryce felt himself falling, only to land roughly back in the sturdy metal chair. Restraints clamped down hard on his wrists once more as Laurence mused, "Perhaps you'll still be of some use to us."

The honest truth only went so far, Bryce determined. Chuck was more valuable than he was—both in respect to the Intersect and as a person—and he needed to make sure his old friend wasn't tossed in the crosshairs of the Ring. So he said goodbye to the old Bryce for the moment and summoned up the remains of Agent Larkin as the pain exploded once more.

. . .

Time marched on—oftentimes to the beat of Bryce's throbbing head. He'd been a prisoner of the Ring for a while now, taking punches left and right (amongst other injuries) as Laurence and his goons dug deep for any information on the real Intersect's identity. But those scraps of Agent Larkin were holding out like Bryce hoped, and he never said a word.

Eventually, Laurence would tire of Bryce's defiance and order his men to cease. At that, Bryce was dragged away and tossed into a different, darker room, where he would be left to his thoughts until his tormentors returned the next morning for another round of pointless torture (that was how Bryce viewed it; Laurence and his men were still optimistic that they might get something out of him eventually).

That was just as bad as the bouts of torture. As soon as Bryce was alone, the levees would break and he'd be left to deal with a hurricane of inner turmoil.

It all went back to that first day he'd been fully conscious post-revival, with the conflict between Agent Larkin and Just Bryce (as he'd started calling the man he used to be). There were so many differences between the two that he found it hard to believe he'd gone from being one to the other at some point in his life, or that he'd even been either side at all.

Sitting in the dark, he analyzed the two personas. Agent Larkin was a spy, first of all; a confident, calculating, fearless, emotionless ladies' man CIA agent whose life was just one mission after another, taking down bad guys all over the world. He had no true friends (the only person he'd ever considered a friend hated him—for a good reason, too), and he thought he'd found love with someone just as committed to the lies and missions as he was. Yet Agent Larkin was the successful one of Bryce's two lives.

But Just Bryce could have been successful as well, if given the chance. He was almost the polar opposite of Agent Larkin—first off, he was a self-described nerd and proud of it. He had a profound fear of fire (all thanks to that one incident in the chem. lab freshman year with the sweatshirt, a Bunsen burner, and that leggy redhead working as his lab partner), he'd actually truly fallen in love and had his heart pulverized (by the same leggy redhead), and he had a best friend who was just as passionate about computers and sci-fi as he was. In truth, Just Bryce had been perfectly happy where he was, but when the CIA calling his junior year, he'd willingly taken up the offer. A life of adventure and espionage intrigued him, so he had to make the sacrifice and shelve his old dream job.

As Bryce continued to mull over the two men he'd been, an even more pressing question hit him: who was he now? After reflecting on his life as Agent Larkin, he'd been disgusted by what he'd previously overlooked. Agent Larkin was actually rather self-centered—he'd thought of himself as the hero and always assumed he was right, but those qualities painted him as the villain from a certain perspective. He'd ruined his best friend's life more than once (the first time he had good intentions, operating under Orion's orders to protect Chuck; the other times he'd just been kind of a jerk). He'd wreaked havoc in a budding relationship, trying to win back the girl he realized (too late) no longer felt the same. Worst of all, he let the job go to his head and put the mission before his own friend's survival.

It was during one of these solitary nights in the dark that Bryce realized he never wanted to be Agent Larkin again. The man was corrupted—not directly by the CIA, but by his self-expectations. All Bryce wanted to do was forget Agent Larkin and go back to being Just Bryce, the nerd with a bright future.

Except he couldn't go back—his life in the CIA had destroyed any chance of that. As far as the rest of the world knew, Bryce Larkin died in September 2007 during a bank robbery. Plus, even if it weren't for that niggling little detail, Bryce would never truly be able to forget life as Agent Larkin. He'd still watch his back for anyone following him, take note of the various places a person could be carrying a gun, and wake up in the middle of the night to memories of gunshots.

In the midst of a debate between two losing sides, Bryce finally took notice of a third party, hidden in the shadows of his mind. When he pulled it out into the light, though, the world of possibilities threw open its doors to him.

Maybe he didn't have to be self-serving Agent Larkin or dead and buried Just Bryce. Maybe he could just be someone new—just start over with a new name, new place, new life. It would be like a long-term cover, but without the CIA meddling with it. No, this would be _his_ life, and no one would ever usurp it again.

It was the perfect plan; he just needed to get out of this new prison first. He'd leave his old life behind at the Ring's feet, and the rest of the world would be none the wiser.

It was the perfect plan—that is, until the CIA stormed the Ring compound.

He should have realized his solution was too simple—his escape from the Ring would have ended with either the CIA tracking him down months later or his final death. All he could do was watch that impossible future burn as two agents dragged him out of his dark cell, called him Agent Larkin, and announced that General Beckman requested a meeting with him upon his return.

It was just a prison transfer—out of the new one, back into the old one.

. . .

Bryce was used to wearing masks. He'd yanked on his fair share of rubbery Halloween monster masks as a young boy, and he'd become a master at throwing on a visage for any cover the CIA assigned him. All he had to do was slip on the façade and he could be someone completely different.

This was the first time he'd had to look in the mirror and summon up the face of Agent Larkin, exuding all the confidence and determination of one of the CIA's finest. It was harder than he thought to wash away the dark circles and deadened expression now gracing his face and replace them with the serious smirk he used to wear.

He tested out this false face during his psych evaluation, hiding his self-loathing and other emotional scars behind that charming smile he shot at the young woman seated across from him. It was only when he exited the room with a positive evaluation that he realized how easy it was to lie through his teeth when they were flashed in a grin.

Upon that success, he tried again when General Beckman summoned him. As he rode in the elevator up to Beckman's office with a guard in silence, Bryce risked a glance at his reflection in the silver doors. He hastily lifted his eyes to the metal surface before him and met those of a stranger. Even when he tried to work around the distorted image, Bryce could no longer find himself in the stranger's face.

The mirror mask split in two when the elevator opened to his destination. The guard stepped out first and guided Bryce down the hallway towards the General's office. For a brief moment, he had a flashback to a similar trip years before, but the memory evaporated when he was ushered through an open door to stand before a petite redheaded woman.

"Agent Larkin," General Beckman greeted curtly. "I see luck was on your side once more. It's good to know you're still alive."

Bryce winced at the comments, scrambling to grasp his slipping mask. Once he readjusted the façade, he got straight to the point. "What have I missed? The last I recall, Chuck was watching me die, and Sarah and Casey were on their way. Do they…?"

"No," Beckman interrupted, vehemently shaking her head. "They assumed our backup team grabbed your body. We couldn't tell them differently for fear of the consequences, so we used that assumption as the official explanation. Agent Walker was given 'your' ashes, which she scattered in Lisbon."

Bryce felt a pang in his heart with the mention of Sarah and Lisbon, but quickly backtracked to an earlier detail. "Wait. General, what do you mean, 'fear of the consequences'? What consequences?" He read the look on Beckman's face and inferred with dismay, "He uploaded it. Chuck uploaded the 2.0."

"Chuck Bartowski made the decision of his own accord," she added. "By uploading the Intersect 2.0, he committed himself to the CIA and to becoming a real spy. If he got wind that it was not the CIA that extracted you, he would have left—an untrained spy—and gone against the Ring himself."

"It was for his protection," Bryce murmured. His mind bitterly corrected, _It was for the _Intersect's_ protection_, as he read between the lines of Beckman's explanation. Either way, this was about Chuck's safety, and there was no way Bryce was going to jeopardize that by telling his only friend that he was alive again. Since the beginning, it was his goal to protect Chuck, but he just never found the correct means to do so. This time, he was going to do it the right way.

Beckman cleared her throat, and Bryce turned his attention back to the petite woman. She set a folder on the center of her desk before she spoke up. "Your return had perfect timing, Agent Larkin. I'm sure you remember the Adler mission you were given years ago." She nodded to the folder.

Bryce closed his eyes and sighed. The Adler mission—the huge disaster. Like he could forget that.

Seeing Bryce's expression, Beckman continued, "Neal Caffrey's prison sentence is up in five months. Upon his release, his records will be expunged and his identity will be erased." She reached for the envelope Bryce recognized as his psych evaluation and added, "Though you have been cleared to return to the field, we'll be keeping you on a probationary period and under surveillance. You'll be going back under as Neal Caffrey to finish up his sentence. Once you complete this mission, you will be evaluated once more before being officially cleared." She peered up at him from the envelope, expecting an answer.

Throat dry, Bryce finally gasped out a, "Yes, General," in response. His mind was swimming as memories mixed with new information and a new plan slowly bubbled up in his mind.

He'd once thought of Neal Caffrey as not merely just a cover, but as _another life_—a life he'd missed. Now he was returning to this life, and in five months time would be released from prison to return to the CIA. Unless, of course, he chose to be Neal Caffrey instead.

He could run from this life, he realized—Neal Caffrey was a con artist who could have any identity he wanted; one the government wouldn't catch wind of until it was too late. It would be as simple as that; like last time, all he had to do was escape from a prison. He started contemplating the idea on the ride to the Supermax the next morning.

It was just another prison transfer—out of Bryce Larkin's, into Neal Caffrey's.

. . .

Neal was used to running. He was a track star back when he was Just Bryce, and there were multiple occasions where he narrowly escaped the FBI before he stumbled into Peter Burke's trap. All he had to do was take a deep breath and sprint away.

If only it were that easy this time. Throughout the first few days of his return to prison, Neal perused assorted books and schematics as he formulated a plan in his head. He'd started to determine how he was going to escape; he just needed to figure out what to do afterwards.

His plans were derailed when one of the security guards told him he had a visitor and brought him to a window, showcasing Kate Moreau on the other side.

It had been so long since Neal had laid eyes on her—his other life had taken more precedence—but he felt like he was falling in love again. As they spoke, he listened to her voice and tried to imagine her next to him anywhere in the world. It startled him when it worked, but it only reaffirmed his new plan: when he ran, they would run together.

Then reality set in. Their current conversation was not cause for celebration. Kate was explaining how she couldn't do it any more, how she couldn't wait for him. This was their last goodbye.

Neal watched as another possible life began to crumble before him, but he rushed to hold it up before it all came down. It wasn't going to happen again. This time he was going to thoroughly plan everything out, and no one would stop him. So he returned to the drawing board and worked with his new ideas.

When he did run a month and a half later, he was aware that both the FBI and the CIA would be on alert to track him down, but he didn't care. All he had to do was reach Kate, and nothing would matter any more.

Except once he reached the shabby apartment that was once their castle, all that remained was an empty bottle—just another goodbye message. He leaned his head back against a pillar as he ran his thumb over the paper label, reminiscing on another woman's final farewell to him. Both Kate Moreau and Sarah Walker found their own paths to follow, and neither included him.

Then Peter Burke walked in, and Neal finally realized how much trouble his escape attempt would cost him. He'd just tacked on more time to an almost-finished sentence, and he was fairly certain a particular stern-faced NSA Director would be waiting to reprimand him upon his return to prison. There was no getting out of this one, so he just accepted defeat.

But when he finally stood to get a good look at his FBI agent adversary, a thin strip on the other man's jacket caught his eye. Recognition hit as Neal examined it (there was a lot of fascinating intel the CIA possessed, including designs for monetary security fibers), followed by yet another idea. Maybe he wasn't finished with his CIA career just yet…

Identifying the mysterious thread in exchange for a meeting in prison one week later was all it took to set things in motion.

During the predicted conversation with General Beckman later that evening, Neal lied that his escape was just part of an improvised attempt to restart the terminated Adler mission. He explained that Vincent Adler was still on the lam, but he might resurface if Neal Caffrey was back on the streets. And Neal Caffrey would have many more resources at his hands if he infiltrated the FBI under the guise of a modified work-release plan. With just a couple more points to back up his idea and a lot of persuasion, Neal won Beckman over and officially started the revised Adler operation. Now it all depended on how easily Agent Burke would be swayed by Neal's suggestion.

A week passed, and the two former adversaries conducted their meeting in the prison's visitation room. They engaged in small chat over the security fiber Neal correctly identified (the Canadian fibers were always so distinctive) before they finally moved on to the main topic of the meeting and Neal presented his case, hoping for the best.

He didn't want Agent Burke to immediately accept the proposition (that would imply that he was quite malleable, and a malleable FBI agent was not a good thing for such a deep-cover mission), nor did he want him to completely reject the idea. It was the man's reluctant agreement to the plan after his initial refusal—as well as his strict conditions for Neal—that convinced Neal that he'd gained a strong ally (even if they weren't quite friends yet).

As he prepared for his release into Peter Burke's custody, Neal contemplated his new situation. He would be spending approximately four years back undercover as Neal Caffrey, solving white-collar crimes with the FBI while doing some clandestine digging for information on Vincent Adler. It was a whole new life for him—isn't that what he wanted?

In truth, Neal still wasn't sure exactly what he wanted. He'd jumped ahead of himself when he cast off everything he once was to start from scratch and create someone new he could be. But life wasn't like the temporary covers he was used to—it took time to fully define who he was, and maybe he didn't have to become someone completely new. So Neal would take these four years of living a double life to find himself again. Once that time was up, he'd decide if running was his best option, or maybe he'd give the CIA life just one more chance. This time, though, he wouldn't lose himself in the job.

His thoughts were broken as the large metal door before him was pulled open, and he stepped across the boundary between prison and freedom.

(Well, maybe it wasn't quite "freedom"—the new tracking anklet Peter introduced into their bargain chafed Neal's leg with every movement.)

Just another prison transfer—hopefully the last one Neal would have to face.

. . .

**A/N 2: **Like I said, it was a huge chapter! I hope it makes up for the long hiatus!

Just a few notes: If Beckman sounded a little colder than normal, keep in mind this is post- "vs. the Ring." She's slightly more easy-going after the first half of season 3 (which was when she became one of my favorite recurring characters), but since this takes place before then, she's still very serious. Also, I'm making a slight adjustment to something regarding Kate's visits to Neal in prison, as established by _White Collar _canon: in order to make the timelines work, I'm saying Kate didn't visit Neal every week like it was said in the pilot. Bryce was on missions/ "dead" during most of Neal's prison sentence, so the weekly visits wouldn't have worked out. I'm just saying Kate visited occasionally.

Chapter 8 is close to completion, so it should be out sooner than this one. We'll finally go back to Peter, and there will be that conversation I promised last chapter!

Also, thanks so much to all of you readers and reviewers—you guys have truly helped me stay inspired, and it encourages me to write. So thank you all!

Let me know what you think.

Until next time,

AQotL


	8. Connaissance

**A/N: **Luckily, that didn't take _quite _as long as last time. I had the majority of this chapter written a while ago, but lack of time to finish and a few adjustments set me back. Most notably, I had to rework a segment of this chapter involving the Intersect once I realized I wanted to change the timeframe for this story.

Before, I mentioned that this is set post- "Chuck vs. the Cliffhanger," but goes AU after the ending (I wanted Chuck with the Intersect and did not want to deal with Morgansect). However, once Season 5 started, I enjoyed seeing Intersectless Chuck and wanted to include a few references to events from the season (like the Piranha, Chuck's hacker persona; and Gertrude Verbanski). So, here's the **new timeline**: "False Faces" is post- "Chuck vs. the Hack Off" (_Chuck_ 5x05), but goes AU before the meeting with Decker. The AU part is Team Bartowski destroys the Omen virus, Decker hasn't been blown to bits, and Gertrude is still around (since she didn't blow up Decker in this timeline, she has no need to be on the run…). The _White Collar _timeline is the same as previously established.

With that out of the way, on with the chapter! Time for Peter to have an interesting conversation with a certain curly-haired nerd…!

Note: Direct quotation from "Casey vs. the Anti-Suit"

"_[He] was my best friend. What if everything he did and said was a lie?"_

_ - Jay Burchell (Matt Bomer), _Traveler

**Connaissance**

_ The first thing Peter noticed was the blood._

_ Streaks of dark crimson trailed along the linoleum floor, occasionally accompanied by handprints in the same gruesome hue marking the white walls. Shattered glass littered the area as well, as if a window had been broken for the intruder to enter—or maybe exit—the office. _

_ Pulling out his gun, Peter moved down the hallway, the droplets of blood acting as grim trail markers pointing him along the path. As he picked up the pace, his surroundings flashed by him. He glanced to the side only once, quickly pulling away when he saw the mass of agents lying in a heap on the floor, motionless. _

_ There was a loud crash, and Peter jerked his head to see a dark figure racing up the staircase before him. Breaking into a full run, the FBI agent bolted up the stairs as well and began his pursuit._

_ The chase continued up countless flights of stairs, yet neither the pursuer nor the pursued paused to rest a moment. The only break granted to Peter and his mysterious target came in the form of a door, which the latter hastily threw open._

_ Peter followed a second later and found himself on the roof of the FBI office. He rapidly glanced around for the other figure with his gun drawn and at the ready._

_ "Hello, Agent Burke," a voice spoke up, and Peter spun to come face-to-face with Vincent Adler. "Care to try again?"_

_ "You did this," Peter growled through gritted teeth as he nodded back towards the building, where the other agents lay lifeless along the bloodstained hallways._

_ Adler merely let out a laugh, brushing a lock of his coiffed hair out of his face. "Oh, did I?"_

_ Peter frowned at the man's words, but jumped up when a gunshot rang out. Adler jolted forward as spots bloomed on his dress-shirt, and he slumped to the ground with a grin still on his face._

_ Still shocked by Adler's sudden demise, Peter looked up to see another man standing a few feet behind the crooked businessman's previous position. Light from the surrounding buildings reflected off of the gun held lazily in the newcomer's hand, allowing the FBI agent to see his face._

_ The man was in what Peter assumed was once a suit, but the jacket was missing and blood soaked through the white dress-shirt. More blood emanated from a gash on the side of his head, matting his unruly dark hair and marring his all-too-familiar face._

_ "Neal?" Peter breathed in disbelief, vehemently shaking his head. "No. No. This isn't right."_

_ A dark smirk quirked at the corner of Neal's mouth. "Hi, Peter."_

_ The agent straightened and backed away, horrified by the scene before him. "No, no, this isn't you, Neal. You— you're not— you don't do this type of thing. You're not a killer. This isn't you!"_

_ Neal's face hardened, and the smirk dropped into a deadly frown as he lifted the gun once more. "What do you know about me? What do you know about me that isn't a lie?" His finger brushed against the trigger, and he murmured, "Face the facts, Peter—you don't know me at all," as he lined up the shot._

. . .

A loud crash filled the air, and Peter jumped up as a picture frame hit the ground. A large crack zigzagged across the glass cover, warping the image of his beautiful wife as she smiled at the camera.

Peter gently lifted the broken frame and set it on his desk, absently making a note to grab another picture frame when he got home (Elizabeth had so many that she even kept a drawer full of them, just waiting to find the right picture to display). The horrific dream he just had took more precedence in his mind than a cracked picture frame.

Neal had been ready to kill him. It didn't matter if it was just a nightmare—the idea of his gun-hating friend turning him into a target disturbed him. It also didn't help that Psycho-Neal's chilling whisper continued to loop over and over in his mind: _You don't know me at all. You don't know me at all. You don't know me at all._

If he'd heard those words a week or possibly even days earlier, Peter would have dismissed them without any thought—he knew Neal better than anyone else did, and it was a fact even Neal acknowledged. However, once he reflected on the day's events, Peter slowly began to reconsider. In the span of a few hours, he learned that at some point in time Neal had been an accountant named Bryce Larkin, and "died" sometime in 2007. He also discovered that Neal did _not_ use that alias to con businessmen, and Mozzie was an informant for some mysterious client who just might have some answers to the "Bryce Larkin" issue. Peter let out a groan and dropped his head onto his desk just thinking about Mozzie—he'd probably craft some elaborate explanation involving government conspiracies and rogue secret agents to stop Peter from looking any further.

Face still pressed against his desktop, Peter blindly moved his hand to grab his keys. It had been a long, frustrating day, and all he wanted to do was go home to Elizabeth and Satchmo. Maybe he and El would just curl up on the couch and watch a movie—just as long as it wasn't some mind-bending, convoluted action film. Peter didn't think he could take any more unexpected plot twists.

His fingers brushed against a sheet of paper, and Peter cracked an eye open to find his hand lying flat on top of the Bryce Larkin obituary. He let out a low growl and prepared to chuck the paper across the room when something on the paper caught his eye. Pulling it towards him, he recognized the phone number Mozzie had hastily scribbled down for his use.

Any sane person who knew anything about the paranoid conman would have ignored the note in disgust. But Peter just wanted answers (and had begun to question his sanity ever since a dead man became his prime suspect), so he dialed the number into his cell phone and sighed, "It's worth a shot…"

There were just two short rings on the other side before someone picked up and announced, _"Carmichael Industries."_

Still a bit wary, Peter had to restrain himself from holding up his badge as he responded, "This is Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I was wondering if you could…"

He cut off just as a flurry of tapping sounds flooded his ear. It sounded as if the person on the other end was typing rapidly on a keyboard, searching for information.

A few seconds later, Peter's computer flickered, and he watched in incredulity as his ID and a slew of other files flew across the screen. Most were from his own computer, but there were some—the more confidential ones—that he was sure were yanked straight out of the FBI database.

"What…" Peter muttered in frustration, watching the documents flash by. He jiggled his mouse and hammered a few keys to no avail. However, a moment or two later the process ceased, and the monitor returned to the main screen.

_"My apologies, Agent Burke—I have to do substantial research on all potential clients," _Peter heard from the other end_._ The voice was that of a young man, and he seemed sincerely apologetic.

"And your way of doing 'research' is hacking into my computer and the FBI database?" Peter asked, letting out a sigh. Of course, _Mozzie_ had given him this number—surely whoever he was talking to was just as distrusting of the government.

_ "I'm used to dealing with people who are rarely who they say they are," _the other man explained. _"There are just so many secrets that you can't take what you see as the truth. I have to dig up that truth before anything bad happens—like, you know, someone tries to kill me or threatens my family or plants a bomb in a public place, all as a means of getting revenge."_

Peter frowned—that was _way_ too specific. Still wary, he chose to ignore the comment for now and continued cautiously, "Well, Mr. …"

_"Carmichael. Charles Carmichael."_

"Mr. Carmichael. So this is the number for your company?"

Carmichael's voice dropped the slight tone of authority he'd had earlier and sounded slightly more casual as he admitted, _"Well, it's not entirely my company—my wife and I are the heads of Carmichael Industries, and a few of my associates would not appreciate it if I overlooked their importance. But to answer your question, yes, this is our number. And, ah, how did you come across it in the first place?"_

Peter closed his eyes to calm himself—Carmichael was stalling—but he answered, "An… acquaintance of mine told me you might be able to help me with something. He claims to know one of your associates—I believe he is some sort of informant for your company."

_"You don't sound too confident in this 'acquaintance,'" _Carmichael noted. _"You don't trust him?"_

"He's a con artist. When your job is to catch guys like him, your relationship is going to be uneasy no matter what."

_"Ah," _the other man said knowingly. _"Anyways, you said you needed help with something. Let's see if we can figure things out."_

"Does 'figuring things out' involve you hacking my computer again?"

Carmichael laughed. _"No, I think our own database will do just fine this time around."_

Turning his eyes skyward in relief, Peter glanced down at the obituary in his hands and tried to figure out how to phrase his dilemma. "A name came up during a recent case, and I keep hitting dead ends whenever I try searching for the man. I can't find any more information than what little I already have."

_"Okay," _Carmichael started. Peter heard light shuffling on the other end, as if Carmichael was walking across the room. _"What was the name?"_

Peter hesitated and looked back down at the photo of his partner. While he stared at Neal's somber expression, Peter almost considered hanging up the phone—what could a stranger possibly know about Neal? But then his eyes traveled over to the accompanying article, which labeled Neal with a different name and a different life, and he answered his own question—the stranger probably knew more about Neal than Peter did. The realization was what caused the words to tumble out of his mouth: "Bryce Larkin."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, which was soon broken by a loud crash. Peter assumed Carmichael dropped the phone, for the following squeak and unintelligible groans sounded far away.

It took a minute for Carmichael to regain his composure and return to his conversation with Peter. _"How— how did you say you heard that name?" _he stammered over the faint sound of computer keys.

"I'm investigating a bank robbery, and the name 'Bryce Larkin' came up during our preliminary round of questioning. So far, all I know is that he's an accountant who died in 2007." Peter stopped short of saying, _And he looks exactly like my criminal consultant. _

That seemed to calm Carmichael a bit. _"Well, you seem to have most of the information, but let's see if I can elaborate a bit: Bryce Larkin—born in Connecticut, one sister. Attended Stanford University; graduated in '03. Better known as an athlete, but enjoyed being a nerd. Not many guys would rather spend the evening playing Zork than go out partying."_

Carmichael sounded oddly reminiscent, though Peter barely registered it at first (he was still trying to picture Neal in a dorm room playing video games). Once he did, though, he voiced his curiosity. "It sounds like you knew him well."

_"Um…" _Carmichael hesitated, realizing he'd given too much away. _"Well, I did. Everyone did. Bryce Larkin was quite infamous on the Stanford campus. A lot of people knew him for his athletics and girls knew him for his good looks and charm, but he was also known for being an all-around nerd and proud of it."_

"So you were one of the people who knew him as a nerd?" Peter asked. The ladies' man part he could buy, and maybe the athlete part, but Neal the Nerd? That sounded more like science fiction compared to the Neal he knew.

_"Yeah. We both liked computers and good sci-fi. Bryce was the guy who wanted to take Klingon for his foreign language credit—he even started a petition." _Carmichael let out a small laugh, but his voice lost any cheer when he continued._ "But he kind of changed later on, about junior year. After senior year, we lost contact. That was the last time I saw him before he died in '07."_

"Oh," was all Peter could manage. His mind was still reeling from the new information—Bryce Larkin was never an alias; _Neal Caffrey _was. Once he realized that, everything he thought he knew about Neal was erased, leaving behind a clean slate. It would fill up again once Peter did some digging and found out what caused Bryce to become Neal.

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," he murmured absently, pressing 'End' as soon as he heard the other man's goodbye. Yep, it was definitely going to be a long week.

. . .

_Meanwhile, on the other side of the country…_

A tall, curly-haired man stared blankly at the blinking red dot on the wall-sized computer screen. _FBI Field Office, New York _was printed underneath the marker, labeling the location on the digital grid. The man kept staring straight ahead, unblinking, even as a door swooshed open above him and two sets of footsteps tapped down the stairs.

"Chuck," the blonde newcomer called, slowly walking over to the screen. "Are you all right?"

There was no response.

"I think the nerd's broken, Walker," her hulking companion grunted, hefting a large duffel bag onto the table on his right. "His hard drive must have fried."

The woman shot him a deadly glare, then returned her concerned gaze to her husband. "Chuck, what's wrong?" She brushed his hair back with her hand, then moved down to grab his own hand.

That seemed to do the trick. Intertwining his fingers with Sarah's, Chuck turned halfway and announced in a daze, "I just got a call from an FBI agent on the Castle phone line."

"Did you look him up?" Sarah demanded gently. "Was he legitimate?"

"Yes on both accounts. Our database doesn't have all that much on the FBI, but I did hack his computer. Everything checked out, and what I found seemed sufficient at the time."

"What do you mean, 'At the time'?" Casey butted in, frozen mid-motion as he removed his sniper rifle from the bag on the table. Narrowing his eyes as his voice turned deadly, he growled, "What did you tell him, Bartowski?"

"You know, the entire situation was a little unexpected," Chuck explained hurriedly. "I get a call from an FBI agent—and unless my hacking skills aren't as good as they once were, I can _confirm_ that he is FBI—asking about a guy who, last time I checked, was dead. But then again, we thought that the first time."

Sarah's eyes widened in incredulity. "Wait. You're saying an FBI agent called to get information on _Bryce_? Did he explain why he needed information or even say how he got our number?"

"Bryce was supposedly mentioned during some bank robbery case the FBI's investigating. It made sense to me—Bryce's primary cover was an accountant, right?" Chuck turned back to his wife, who nodded cautiously. "So that would explain the bank robbery connection—but why is it happening now? And as for how our phone number made its way into the FBI's hands, the agent mentioned something about an 'acquaintance' working as an informant for us."

"And you actually believed him?" Casey roared in outrage, his grip tightening on the sniper rifle he still held.

"Well, he works in the white collar crime division, and he said this 'acquaintance' was a con artist," Chuck explained before turning to Sarah and adding, "I assumed he was talking about your father."

Sarah frowned. "My dad likely wouldn't strike up a friendship with an FBI agent like that—even an uneasy friendship. Plus, how would he know anything about Bryce?"

Throughout the exchange, Casey remained silent. His tense grip on the rifle tightened as the pieces started to fall into place—Bryce Larkin, the FBI, the informant. It all called back to a conversation from just months before, and a short, strange conman muttering, _"__I don't have clearance of any kind, Anti-Suit. I have a friend with ties to both the Agency and the FBI, remember?"_

Casey finally let the gun drop, growling, "Haversham…"

The newlyweds snapped their attention to their associate at the deadly grunt.

"Are you saying _you _know the 'informant'?" Sarah demanded.

"Unfortunately. He's given me good information in the past, but the guy's as paranoid as can be. He wouldn't help a Fed with an investigation unless…" More pieces wriggled their way into the puzzle. Uncharacteristically, he trailed off.

Sarah and Chuck took this as bad sign and shouted in unison, "Unless _what_?"

Casey let out another grunt—the one closest to a sigh—and admitted, "Unless something's gone wrong."

The other two narrowed their eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not sure exactly, but it sounds like this FBI agent has stumbled across some information he shouldn't have. All I know is that there's trouble coming."

"Well, that's right up our alley, isn't it?" Chuck grinned. "Trouble always comes to us—whether it's someone who's in trouble or someone who's going to cause trouble, we're always right in the middle of it. Sure, sometimes we get in trouble ourselves, but other times we get others out of it. Let's face it—we're the go-to-guys for trouble."

Casey grunted and made an angry-repulsive face. "That's the worst slogan I have ever heard." He paused in contemplation and grunted again. "Scratch that—'America needs new leadership.' That's the worst." He rolled his eyes and started to disassemble the rifle, growling, "Everything was fine the way it was, thank you very much, Walter Mondale. That's why you lost the election, moron."

Chuck and Sarah exchanged a look during their partner's pro-Reagan tirade before getting back to the matter at hand.

"It's worth checking out," Sarah said. "We need to look into this FBI agent and find out why he's looking for information on Bryce, especially now."

Chuck nodded, crossing his arms across his chest. "So it's settled, then."

Sarah eyed Casey, who grudgingly grunted affirmatively.

"Good. I'll tell Morgan to start packing." Chuck turned back to the computer screen, watching the tracker blink on and off.

"We're going to New York."

**A/N 2: **And there's the official introduction of Team Bartowski in the story! It'll be a few more chapters before they show up again, but that second appearance will definitely be awesome.

The next few chapters should be pretty interesting as well. I'm thinking there will be quite a few cliffhangers… However, I have a rough outline of the chapters and Chapter 9 is already in progress, so hopefully things go smoothly and the cliffhangers won't last for long!

Let me know what you think.

Until next time,

AQotL


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